“It would not surprise me to hear that a good share of the students who live at Wayland Hall had not yet returned. According to our valued bulletin,—we have to fall back on it for information,—Wayland Hall is the oldest campus house. That would make it desirable in the eyes of upper class girls. We were fortunate to obtain reservations here.”
They had crossed the open space in front of the house and mounted the steps. As they reached the doorway a girl stepped out of it. So sudden was her appearance that she narrowly missed colliding with the arrivals. She had evidently hurried out of a reception room at the left of the hall. Passing through the hall or coming down the open staircase she would have seen the group before reaching the door.
“Oh, I beg your pardon,” she apologized, viewing the newcomers out of a pair of very blue, non-curious eyes. “I never pay proper attention to where I am going. I was so busy thinking about an examination I must take tomorrow that I forgot where I was. I’ll have to stop now for a second to remember what I started out to do,” she added ruefully, her face breaking into a roguish smile which displayed two pronounced dimples.
Instantly the hearts of the Five Travelers warmed toward her. Her dimples brought back fond memories of Susan Atwell. She was quite a tall girl, five feet, seven inches, at least, and very slender. Her hair was a pale flaxen and fluffed out naturally, worn severely back from her low forehead though it was. Her one-piece frock of white wash satin gave her a likeness to a tall white June lily, nodding contentedly on a sturdy stem.
“I wonder if I can be of service to you,” she said quickly. Courtesy had not deserted her. She could, it seemed, pay proper attention to the needs of the stranger.
“I wish you would be so kind as to tell us where we will find Miss Remson. We are entering freshmen, and are to live at Wayland Hall.” Marjorie introduced herself and friends to the other girl, stating also from whence they had come.
“Oh, you are the Sanford crowd!” exclaimed the girl. “Why, Miss Weyman was to meet you at the train! She went down to the garage for her car. Two sophomores from her club, the Sans Soucians, were to go down with her to the five-fifty train. They left here in plenty of time for I saw them go. They must have missed making connections with you somehow. I forgot to introduce myself. I am Helen Trent of the sophomore class.”
The Lookouts having expressed their pleasure in meeting this amiable member of the sophomore class, Miss Trent led the way inside and ushered them into the reception room. It was a medium-sized room, done in two shades of soft brown and furnished with a severely beautiful set of golden oak, upholstered in brown leather. The library table was littered with current magazines, giving the apartment the appearance of a physician’s receiving room.
Seized by a sudden thought, Jerry turned to their new acquaintance and asked: “Does the Miss Weyman you spoke of drive a large gray car?”
“Why, yes.” Helen Trent opened her blue eyes a trifle wider in patent surprise. She was speculating as to whether it would be within bounds to inquire how the questioner had come by her knowledge.